


Like the Burning of the Sun

by AndAllForAPrettyFace



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndAllForAPrettyFace/pseuds/AndAllForAPrettyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(minifill) From DAKink prompt:</p><p>Don't ask me how a place surrounded by snow-covered mountains can experience a heat wave - mage magic gone awry?! But would love it if everything/everyone was just so hot and sweaty and Quizzy decides to head on over to the stables to see if things might be a touch cooler over there & whoops! Blackwall's gone and taken off his shirt so that all there is is just the sweat dripping down his chest and all those feelings Quizzy's been trying to avoid/suppress the past few months just boil over...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Burning of the Sun

It isn’t her fault. There’s no damn forest here. If there were a forest, she’d have the cool shade to rest and recover her thoughts.

It’s not her fault. The barn is shaded, inviting, especially up in the loft with the cross-breeze and the healthy scent of hay, like the pen near the aravel where the hallas feed and sleep

It’s not her fault that man is here, dozing quietly in the unbearable heat, reclined on a bale of hay with no shirt on his back. His chest rises and sinks, slow and calm.

He’s so broad. Ellana’s somehow forgotten this. He’s broad like a beast, like a tree trunk. She feels small just standing there.

She’s had quick tumbles with boys before, experiments in the shade away from eyes, valleslin dotted with pinpricks of sweat from the speedy, pleasant coupling. She’s let them touch and penetrate and pleasure her, and she’s gasped with delight when they found that sweet spot to push her over the edge, and she's laughed with delight when she found that touch for their pleasure in turn. She’s never lain with anyone who wasn’t of the People, slender and graceful, lithe of limb and fair of skin. She can feel them as kin, so similar in build and mind to her own. The human is so broad, chest criss-crossed with wiry black hair that shouldn’t surprise her, given the texture of the variety that grows on his head and on his chin. Thick rivulets of sweat lie drying on his tan skin. He looks like an animal, reclined there amidst the hay, mouth slightly agape as he dozes.

Creators, he’s so strong. She can see the curve of biceps, his outstretched arm, so careless, effortlessly powerful. Ellana knows she’s strong enough to get by, but her prowess is in speed, in the dance. Blackwall is a man who bears a heavy sword and a heavy shield, and he can toss around either like it weighs nothing.

She takes a step closer, and another. She can smell him, the sweat on his skin, animal scent, as certainly as she could smell her halla in the stall downstairs.

She sees a hand reaching out to him and knows belatedly that it’s hers.

He catches her wrist when her hand is inches away, instantly alert, on guard for an attack. He relaxes when he sees her face. He tenses again when he sees how she’s found him, how she’s staring, how her teeth are dimpling her lip, how her eyes are burning hot on him. Slowly, deliberately, she flattens her hand so that her fingertips graze the flesh of his naked chest.

Blackwall utters a shuddery gasp.

She remembers how he told her this wasn’t something they could pursue, how she’d accepted that and moved on. She won’t push this if he won’t have it. She can’t do that to him. This needs to be something born of choice, not just sun and sweat and idle touch.

She strokes his chest again, trying to give him time but unable to hold back entirely.

Clumsier than he would probably like but faster than she would think possible, he has her pinned against the wall, his chest to her back, the sweat on his skin seeping through her shirt. “Maker have mercy on me, Ella,” he whispers, his hands shuddering along her arms as he presses them to the wooden slats of the barn. She can feel his manhood— _Creators, he’s bigger than she’d expected_ —pressing against his trousers. “Maker, Ella…” His chest heaves against her back.

“Shut up,” she whispers, “shut up and fuck me, _ma'arlath_.”

Blackwall groans like a felled tree. He’s told her before (in jest) not to speak her native tongue unless she must, that he finds it arousing and distracting. She can feel him twitch as she speaks, can feel his will break as she rotates the curve of her ass back to grind against his urgent erection. He tugs down her leggings with firm, forceful fingers, finds her wet and ready, and shoves inside her. Ellana gives an embarrassing little yelp—Creators, even as shamefully wet as she is, the width of him is a glorious burn, a joyous friction, but one for which she’s not even vaguely prepared, and she’s as loud as a green, inexperienced girl as he slides in and out, feeling the limits and borders of her sex. After a few slow thrusts, he covers her mouth with his big, callused hand before continuing.

She wants to tell him to stop muting her, that she can handle it, that she was just caught off guard, that she’s done this before, that she doesn’t need him manhandling her like a piece of meat, but all she can do is moan and pant like a rutting beast.

And at once, she realizes that she can’t wait. She twists an arm free—it leaves her face and his forearm pressed against the rough wood wall, but she doesn’t give a damn—and forces her fingers into her burning, aching cunt, rubbing hard, fast circles around her clit until she’s coming all too quickly, keening, howling, biting down on his hand. She can feel him stretching her, speeding up in her, even as she sends herself pitching over the edge. Her finger keeps slipping, slick with sweat and clumsy with need, and he's driving her against the wood so hard it's scraping both their skin, but in spite of all of it, she's coming harder than she ever has in her life, pinpricks of light dotting her eyes and lancing through the core of her body as she clenches around is thick, long, human cock.

The quakes of her aftershocks—and the muffled elvhen words she’s spitting against his fingers— really get him going, too, and he bears her down onto the hay-strewn floor, down onto all fours. His hands are free now and clap hard against her hips, slicking up her waist, torso, breasts; it's like he can't see her, feeling his way on instinct even as he moves in her faster and harder and— _Creators, oh—_ when he comes inside her— _irresponsible, mustn't happen again_ — he has to mute a hoarse, broken shout in the skin of her shoulder, which he proceeds to bruise and mar with teeth and tongue and lips.

Ellana gasps and heaves as she sheaths him, aching as he fills her but grateful for every twinge of glorious pain. Her hair is clinging to her scalp, stuck there with frantic sweat. She feels him keep slowly moving in her, trying not to let the moment end as he grows soft.

They fall together on the floor, curled together, flecks of hay awkwardly sticking to sweat-slicked skin, and wait for the cross-breeze, too drained to do anything else.


End file.
